1396: Yet Under Stars

My beer-slipped schemes drift
from under me – from my legs –
as if my intentions are blown

whilst I am at my high helm
of hard rope pulls – without her –
in my pain-clinkered craft

and it shifts to starboard –
now translated into my
Cornish-Sussex parlance

but it is a one-man adjust
of no more clean oar lifts –
dizziness and lost time steer

my walk before a freeze over –
I will not be stuck in her frost fair
Not locked in a once-flowing place

Yet under stars – we are our equals
with no cold differences
Under such light nothing matters

as my dead man walk continues
back to our flights of stairs
and drawn curtain stories

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